


We Found Each Other In The Dark

by honey_wheeler



Series: Duty's End [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a complete crack idea where Jon, Sansa, Jaime and Brienne set up house together at "Duty's End" after the events of the books and are happy for once. Just go with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Found Each Other In The Dark

Jon’s begun to think he imagined it. He’d be _certain_ he imagined it if Sansa’s kiss weren’t so vivid in his memory – the softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands in his hair, tugging with gentle but insistent pressure. He’s spent the day half hard from the memory of it, but she seems the same as ever. There have been no lingering looks between them, no fraught touches. Nothing to make clear the events of the night before.

He wonders now if she’s upset with him, if she intended him to come to her room as Jaime suggested. Jon had wanted to, so very badly, but a lifetime of instinct cannot be overruled in an hour of indulgence, no matter how sweet an indulgence she was, so Jon had lain awake and thought of her, so close but so far away, and wondered if she’d thought of him. But when he saw her over the morning meal, she’d only smiled serenely at him, and Jon had been left wondering if everything the night before had only happened in his head.

Jaime has been far less opaque. He’s not precisely Jon’s favorite person even under the best of circumstances – too smug and cocksure, too adept at finding the sore spots and poking hard – but he’s been insufferable every time Jon’s seen him today, with his knowing grins and at one point, a gesture so obscene that Jon had punched him in the eye. The stunned and almost impressed look on Jaime’s face had made it entirely worthwhile, even if Jon’s knuckles had suffered for it.

“Jaime says you struck him,” Sansa says as the two of them tidy up after supper. Immediately, Jon feels like a chastened little boy, though there’s no judgment in her tone. He weighs the benefit of his possible responses and decides to go with unvarnished truth.

“I did,” he says. Sansa wipes the plate she’s holding dry and places it in a cupboard before turning and regarding him thoughtfully.

“Did he deserve it?” she asks. Jon is so surprised by the question that he can only stare dumbly at her.

“What?”

“Did he deserve it?” she repeats patiently. “I imagine he did.”

Again, Jon decides on truth. “Yes.”

“Oh Jon,” she says with a fond sigh and a smile that touches her eyes and makes them crease at the corners. She lays her rag out carefully to dry and then catches his hand with equal care. Jon freezes, feeling not unlike a rabbit spotted by an eagle. Stock still, heart hammering, he watches her trace whisper-soft touches over the broken skin at his knuckles. It makes him shake like a leaf in the wind, something he’d curse himself for were it anyone but Sansa witnessing it.

“You need patching,” she says, her words so soft and sweet they could almost be a croon. Jon has heard that tone before, long ago, in a different life, from her mother when Rickon had bumped his head or Bran had scraped his knees. It affects him more than he’d thought such a thing could. But then he’d never dreamed to expect something like it from her.

Fetching a clean rag, she wets it and dabs at the dried blood stretched over his knuckles, clucking soothingly when a scab breaks and brings fresh new blood welling up. Jon submits himself to her care completely, so completely he thinks he should probably be ashamed of it. But he can’t be, not with her hands so gentle on his, with her head so close that he has only to duck his own to smell the lavender scent of her hair, just as sweet as it was last night when she touched him and kissed him and stepped into his arms like she belonged there.

“Sansa,” he says, suddenly needing to make the night before into something real, something that can’t be snatched out of his grasp.

“Yes?” She doesn’t look up from his hand as she pats it dry. “I don’t think you need a bandage,” she says, “only keep it dry and-”

“Last night,” he interrupts her, but she lifts her head and places her fingers against his lips. He can’t stop himself catching her hand in his and kissing her fingertips. Then she pulls her hand away and replaces it briefly – all too briefly – with her lips.

“Come, Jon,” she says. “Come brush my hair by the fire.”

Jaime smirks when Jon trails Sansa into the sitting room, his eyes flicking to Jon’s hair as if looking for telltale signs like he’d seen the night before. Jon resists the urge to make his blackened eye into a matched set. Sansa doesn’t pay Jaime the slightest mind – she rarely pays him the slightest mind, which Jon thinks is why Jaime is always on such good behavior for her. She stands expectantly next to the chair Jon favors. She has her brush in hand already, though Jon’s not sure where it came from. He seems to be in quite a haze each time he’s around her of late.

She settles at his feet once he’s lowered himself into the chair, her hips curving softly against his ankles, her shoulders bumping his knees. She offers the brush over her shoulder, turning her head just enough that he can see the line of her cheek and her lips in their gentle smile, her lashes a dark crescent that he itches to run his fingertip over. They would be soft like fur, he thinks. Silently, he takes the brush, ignoring Jaime’s smirk, ignoring everything but the length of Sansa’s hair as she pulls the pins from it and lets it tumble over his lap and knees.

It’s like silk, like water, like cool fire under his fingertips. The brush makes a whisper as he pulls it through in long, smooth movements. It doesn’t truly need brushing; there are no tangles. Still he draws the brush from her crown and temples down to the tips, holding each section in his scarred hand, feeling the cool silk of it on his damaged palm. 

The motion of the brush is calming. With each stroke, Sansa settles against his shins more fully, until she’s a sweet weight against him. He can smell the fragrance of her hair, hears the music of her laughter as she talks with Brienne and Jaime, words he can’t seem to catch the meaning of but that sound soothing all the same. It seems he’s passing quite a few nights where words escape him.

When she reaches up to still his hand, it shocks him back into sensibility. Brienne and Jaime are gone without him realizing it, somehow, the fire crackling down low. For a moment, his fingers resist her tug on the brush. She chuckles, the sound as warm as those embers, and pulls harder until he relinquishes it to her grasp. She stands in one smooth movement, more graceful than anything he thinks he’s ever seen, and sets the brush carefully on a side table.

“I think we can stop pretending there’s not something else we’d rather be doing,” she says, “don’t you, Jon?” He reaches his hand out to curl one finger in the lock of hair that falls over her shoulder and down her breast.

“Is there something else we’d rather be doing?” he asks in false innocence, loving the playfulness of her answering smile. It’s with a sense of disbelief that he watches her raises her skirts to her knees, and a sense of utter shock that he watches her place one knee between his thigh and the arm of his chair, and then the other. Instinctively, his hands settle on her waist, just where it flares into her hips, a curve that he can feel even through who knows how many layers of cloth. When she settles her weight onto his thighs and sets her hands at his shoulders, he thinks he could shoot through the roof from the racing beat of his heart. 

“I’m sure we can think of something,” she says. Her smile is sweet, seductive, but still somehow shy, as if she’s unsure of this bold new role she’s taken and needs his reassurance. Jon can think of nothing he’d like to give more.

She sighs into his mouth when he kisses her, the immediate parting of her lips an irresistible invitation. She’s even sweeter than he remembered. He strokes his tongue along hers, coaxes it into his mouth and keeps it there, sucking gently at her tongue the way he’s dreamed of doing elsewhere. These kisses are a world away from the kisses of last night. There is no rush, no desperation; Jon kisses her as if he’ll have a lifetime to do it, his hand gripping the back of her neck as if to keep her there, though she makes no effort to move away. Instead she curls closer to him and submits herself to him with such complete trust that it shakes him to his core.

“It’s late,” she sighs, when the fire is only embers, when they’ve kissed so long that Jon’s lips feel dry and chapped, but still he wants nothing more than to continue kissing her.

“Not all that late,” he says. He noses along her jaw, smiling at her shiver when he hits the soft patch beneath her ear.

“Late enough that a lady should be in her chambers.”

“Is there a lady about?” Jon asks innocently, laughing when she strikes his shoulder with her fist, harder than he’d have thought her capable of.

“You are wicked,” she says. “Perhaps I’ll not invite you back to my room with me after all.” Jon stills, lifting his head to look at her.

“Is that something a lady does?” he asks. Her cheeks are flushed pink, but she holds his eye boldly.

“Is there a lady about?” she counters, arching one brow. It’s an answer that demands a kiss, and Jon grants it until they’re both breathless again. She tilts her forehead against him when they pull apart, her breath coming in pants that puff sweet against his lips. “Come to be with me, Jon. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

It’s hardly a request that Jon could ever refuse.

She wriggles off his lap, something that makes him bite his lip in an effort to keep himself under control. Once she’s gained her feet, she holds her hand out to him, a gesture so easy that it makes his heart ache.

Jon reaches out and takes her hand, and allows her to lead him to her room.


End file.
